‘No. No. Just coming.’ And Mr Cribbs smiled to himself before joining the others for the only lunch he would eat in his life prepared by the certifiably insane.
Matthew, frustrated by this section, flicks through the pages to discover that the diary entries finish abruptly on March 18th 1871.
He turns to the last few pages of the book, written up by the secretary of the local history society. Good God. The architect Samuel Cribbs was actually found murdered – his throat slit; the body discovered in his study at home by the housekeeper – the expression on Mr Cribbs’ face, noted in the papers of the day, as ‘one of complete surprise’.
The notes mention rumours initially of suicide – that perhaps the architect’s obsession with the hospital had got the better of him – but then an escape was reported. One of the patients, who had been incarcerated at Millrose Mount from his teens, had managed to escape in the laundry, hiding in one of the wheeled trolleys that was removed daily along a tunnel which Mr Cribbs had so carefully designed for the purpose.
This patient, suffering some severe personality disorder, apparently developed a fixation with the architect – an obsession which had been fuelled by his kindliness and the interest he showed, especially in the work carried out in the kitchens. Mr Cribbs had made the innocent yet ultimately fatal mistake of praising the patient’s bread-making skills. This had apparently been interpreted as some kind of love at first sight, which initially proved a positive thread in the young man’s life until Mr Cribbs neglected to tour the kitchens on his subsequent visits. Rejection. Unrequited love turned to hate. Too much for the troubled, damaged mind.
The young man had waited in an alleyway close to the architect’s home until after dark and then crept inside.
Matthew feels a shiver – the already cool air chilling further around him – and closes the book.
‘Enough for today?’ The librarian’s smile is genuine as Matthew scrapes his chair back, regretting the noise even though there is no one to disturb. Aylesborough library is too small, too tatty and, above all, too cold to attract much business.
The assistant notices him glancing around. ‘There’s talk of a new library. But we’ll believe it when we see it,’ she sighs.
In the corner is a display area for posters – an attempt to attract more children, the mention of a reading club – but the offerings all faded. Matthew has seen only pensioners using the place, many of them after the large-print books kept on three shelves directly alongside the desk area.
Sad really. A dreary and disappointing library, and Matthew is just about to depart when there is a commotion in the doorway – loud voices and the shake of umbrellas – as three men, accompanied by the salesman from Millrose Mount Village, sweep into the room.
The men are all wearing suits in various shades of grey. Council types – a supposition confirmed as the library assistant begins busying herself behind the desk, evidently in the presence of her employers.
‘What we were thinking…’ The tallest of the men is now sweeping ahead of the others to the window area. ‘We were thinking that if there could be an area taking in the views. A lot of glass. Something akin to a conservatory? An exhibition area – over here, say. And then there could be seating – for authors’ talks and the like.’
The other men are nodding furiously as the man from Millrose Mount makes notes on a clipboard. Matthew slides the copy of the diary across the desk to the assistant, waiting for his card to be returned, and is glad when he is finally outside – the smell of the salt spray and the call of the gulls reviving him.
10
Kate waits for the sound of Toby’s car departing before slipping on her rubber gloves to get everything ready for Martha. In truth, she knows that her house does not need cleaning and knows too that Toby would have got upset – pacing and worrying about her overdoing it – had she removed the gloves from their smart new packet before he left. But this is not about what the house needs. This is exciting now.
It is a bit like decorating, Kate has discovered. Once you start cleaning one room truly meticulously, only then do you realise just how dirty the rest of the house has become. OK – not dirty. Even Kate can see that it is not dirty, per se. But once she starts, she always finds something which can be done better. Surfaces to sparkle more brightly. Things to line up more neatly.
And she has come to love the sensation of finishing; not the cleaning itself. Not that. But the feeling, albeit very temporary, of looking around herself and seeing nothing which needs her attention.
Kate tugs her gloves into place. Where to start? The surfaces in the kitchen first. Yes. She is glad now to have remembered an old toothbrush for around the taps. She flicks the switch on the radio, checking the clock to confirm that the afternoon play is just about to begin, and sets to work.
By coincidence the play begins with the sound of running water just as Kate fills her bucket. A man in his bath – singing to his ducks. It is to be a curious play, the kind requiring a certain amount of concentration, and Kate is not sure she is in the mood. She wipes the surfaces, moving all the jars and equipment carefully aside so as not to miss any stray crumbs from the toaster as the man is interrupted in his bath by his wife to say there is a salesman at the door with encyclopaedias. Kate spins the wheel on the radio until she finds some music. Classical. Yes. Better. She gives the radio a quick wipe with her cloth and checks her watch, reminding herself not to miss the TV chat show later.
She sighs. Josef Karpati. Today’s guest. Her absolute favourite…
For some reason her doll’s house comes next into her mind. That had a smart little kitchen – a real little cooker with a door that opened and tiny saucepans inside. Three different sizes. Kate remembers she liked to move the furniture around – rearranging the rooms each week. Sometimes moving the sofa along the back wall but then realising that people would not be able to see the television painted on one of the walls. Infuriatingly immovable.
She squeezes her cloth into the water and wonders what Martha will make of her home – if the clinical shininess will frighten her away; worry her as it does Toby.
Please, Kate. You’ve got to stop this. Please.
For just a moment she pictures them – her and Toby – in the doll’s house together, snuggled up in a single bed – the smell of sex and paraffin and sweat. A glow from the ancient heater across the room; a dirty saucepan and a can of beans on the little Belling cooker in the corner of the room. Their clothes on the floor. How had they lived like that? Student bedsits. How had she and Toby ever lived like that?
Kate refills her bucket now and, while the bubbles rise, reaches quickly into the corner cupboard for the mop. She retrieves her old toothbrush from under the sink and smiles as she scrubs at the taps before polishing them with paper towels to see her distorted reflection, leaning forward and then backwards to make her face swell and shrink, before moving on to the floor.
The room is now smelling of lemons and Kate is pleased. She is hungry, regretting skipping lunch, but does not want to make a mess while it all looks so lovely, so finishes the floor and moves into the sitting room while it dries.
An hour later and she is happy. She prepared the spare room yesterday and checked it all again this morning. A mix of books alongside the bed – Hardy. Agatha Christie. One of Toby’s spy novels and Jane Austen, of course. Two towels. A box of tissues. Yes. Everything ready.
In the end, to please her, Toby had agreed to a trial period – a month, tops, on the strict understanding Kate will go back to the doctor, and if there is any sign it is proving too much of a strain, then Martha will have to go. Agreed?
Kate stares out of the window onto the garden and digs the nails of her right hand into her palm – pushing the picture away. She watches the birds for a moment, as they enjoy the stale bread retrieved from the toaster tray earlier, and then to distract herself she moves back into the utility alongside the kitchen and sets up the ironing board, selecting three of Toby’s shirts from
the basket while the iron heats. Two are favourites of his – casual; the kind he likes to wear to work when he is not meeting clients. Architecture, Toby likes to argue, is about creativity, and people who want creative should not expect a collar and tie. Fuddy-duddies, he complains, struggling into a tie on the days he has formal meetings – pitching for work.
It is good, Kate reflects, that he is working now with Mark. He has always been the politician, able to talk Toby around. Knows him so well. Better than me now, Kate wonders, switching the dial on the iron to steam.
It was her mother who had taught her to iron a man’s shirt – Collar first, Kate, then the cuffs, then the back panel… see… Toby wouldn’t care, quite frankly, if she put them straight on the hanger – would dress happily in crumpled linen – but Kate does not mind the task these days. Another thing to keep her occupied. She pictures him, bent over his designs – his brow tensed into the Y-shaped wrinkle, examining the work from every angle before stopping suddenly and relaxing, the letter on his brow dissolving like writing in sand, before smiling and leaning further forward. Yes. It is good that he at least has his work.
Kate finishes the shirts and then looks out once again onto the garden – three birds now pecking at the last few crumbs of toast on the little table bought from the garden centre the week they moved in. She looks beyond the bird table to the trees, then to the earth dug by Toby ready for the vegetables he imagines he might grow, and the thought returns. And this time she cannot push the image away.
She closes her eyes and can see them perfectly. Muddy feet across the floor. A child’s perfect little prints.
Kate stands the iron up on its rest and steps out of her sandals. Like a sleepwalker, she moves slowly into the garden, wincing slightly at the cool wind and the cold of the paving stones, then the wet of the grass and finally the softer warmth of the damp ground where Toby has been digging. She looks down at her bare feet as she walks, around and around, until both her feet are warm and brown, then back across the lawn, and slowly, ever so slowly, across the perfectly clean floor. Five, six footprints – until she reaches the doorway to the hall where she turns to examine the trail.
Too big. She feels her shoulders move. Her footprints are too big…
Kate feels the familiar prickle of tears and fights hard. How long she is there – struggling to hold them in – Kate is unsure, but it is like waking from sleep, from a dream, when the doorbell rings. A glance at the clock. Six already. But – didn’t she say seven? Kate stands to see Martha’s blurred image through the patterned glass of the front door. She bites her lip, slips her muddy feet back into her sandals and smooths her hair. Damn. She so wanted to be calm. Ready.
‘You all right? I’m not too early, am I?’ Martha looks worried as she stands on the doorstep surrounded by several plastic bags and a small rucksack. For a moment she glances at Kate’s feet but says nothing and picks up the collection of bags, swinging the rucksack over her left shoulder.
‘No. No. Come on in, please. I was just…’
Martha and her bags seem to fill the entire hallway and there is an awkward pause – her guest unsure of which way to turn as Kate freezes.
‘Martha, I’m sorry. I was in the middle…’
Kate stops as Martha clocks the muddy prints across the kitchen floor. She turns, ‘I’ve brought some food, Kate. From Maria. If it’s not too forward, I thought I’d cook tonight. As a thank you.’
‘There’s no need, Martha.’ Another pause. ‘But thank you. Yes. That would be lovely.’
‘So is it all right then?’ Martha raises one of the plastic bags as Kate looks on, still dazed. ‘To put the food away?’
Kate nods as Martha picks her way around the footprints in the kitchen to lay out her food on the worktop next to the sink. There is a large pack of meat, a small plastic container, tomatoes, some fresh herbs and a bottle of red wine.
Kate watches, fascinated, as Martha produces more and more ingredients and looks around her for the fridge.
‘Just lasagne, but I have a fabulous recipe. Maria gets wonderful chicken livers for the sauce. Makes it really rich.’
Kate opens the fridge and moves some items to make room. ‘Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Or hot chocolate? I was just about to make myself one. A treat – with the works. Cream and marshmallows. I remember you saying you like it.’
‘Oh, goodness. Sounds lovely. Yes, please.’ Martha crouches down – sorting her ingredients. ‘And you’re absolutely sure this is OK with your husband? I mean, it’s very good of you. Very unexpected.’
And then, as she stretches out her arm, Kate notices for the first time the scars on Martha’s wrist. A series of neat, red lines. Martha catches her eye and quickly pulls down the sleeve of her jumper, using her middle finger to hold the cuff in place. Kate suddenly understanding all the baggy clothes. The overly long sleeves.
‘So you’re quite sure this is OK with Toby? That he doesn’t mind?’
Kate smiles weakly. ‘Like I said before, Toby’s busy setting up his new business. Working quite long hours. To be honest, he’s glad for me to have some company.’
Martha turns again to the ingredients, her finger still gripping her sleeve. ‘Maria has a fabulous butcher. Best meat locally.’
‘So did she just give you all this, then?’ Kate tries not to let her eyes wander back to Martha’s wrists.
‘Yes. She’s short-staffed so I helped her out a bit yesterday. Favour for favour. She’s got a new oven, so it’s a bit chaotic. There. I think that’s everything.’
Kate meanwhile begins busying herself with milk for the hot chocolate. ‘I expect you’re wondering. About the muddy prints?’ She feels uneasy for Martha to see this mess but Martha is frowning at something else. The line of three large packing boxes, still sealed in the hallway.
Toby had wanted to put them upstairs – or in the garage – while she decides what to do. But it makes Kate stressed to even think about it. What to do for the best.
‘Really should have got myself better sorted by now.’ Kate begins fidgeting with her hair, staring at the boxes. ‘The truth is I should have had a better clear-out before we packed up the old house. So much stuff. I still can’t decide whether this lot should be unpacked or go to the charity shop.’
‘Right.’ Martha’s tone is curious. She glances between the immaculate order of the house – the neatness in the kitchen, and the sitting room visible through the doorway – and back to the cardboard boxes in the hall. Then she tilts her head and reaches out to lightly touch Kate’s arm as if by way of reassurance, before glancing at her own small rucksack on the floor and smiling.
‘You will have gathered that I don’t have that problem myself. Not a lot of stuff, full stop,’ Martha is smiling and Kate is grateful for the gesture.
And then once the drinks are ready, Kate is suddenly noticing the time. ‘Oh goodness, I hope you don’t mind, Martha, but I want to catch something on the television. Toby is going on about getting one of these video recorder things. Have you seen them? All sounds way too complicated to me…’
She leads the way into the sitting room, the bag of marshmallows tucked under her left arm, Martha a step behind as Kate finds the right channel, relieved that the chat show host is still doing his intro.
‘There. Think I’ve only missed five minutes…’
Martha’s eyes widen.
‘Josef Karpati’s on next. Do you like him? We saw him at the Albert Hall once. Amazing.’
Martha reaches out for her mug, her face colouring now as she takes a sip.
‘I saw a documentary on him a while back. Fascinating. Do you know that he defected on a bank holiday? All the embassies shut. Right panic it caused. They had to use some emergency protocol at the airport to sort it all out. Can you imagine? And he was engaged for a time to that opera singer – gosh. What was her name? Anyway. It all fell through. He called it off, apparently.’
Kate pauses suddenly as the host begins the introduction and the
y start to play a clip of Josef Karpati from a recent movie theme.
‘You all right, Martha?’
‘Yes. Yes. Sorry. Did you say you saw him at the Albert Hall?’
‘Yes. Spectacular concert. And gorgeous eyes.’ Kate is now ripping open the bag of marshmallows with her teeth.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Josef Karpati. Gorgeous eyes, don’t you think? I can’t help wondering if he wears those coloured contact lenses. I was reading that they use them in Hollywood a lot.’
Martha does not reply, reaching out instead to take a handful of marshmallows, dropping two into the top of her drink and keeping her own eyes firmly down – watching as the sweet, pink cushions begin slowly to melt through the swirl of cream.
Kate meantime is sighing as the chat show host confirms that Josef has brought his famous Stradivarius cello, rumoured to be worth in excess of a million pounds.
11
Josef Karpati – international cellist and now dubbed ‘Symphony Sex Symbol’ by the tabloid press – is lying at full stretch on his back along the plastic bench seat of the Channel Six TV green room. His eyes are closed as a young woman wearing headphones, which move up and down, synchronised with her chewing gum, sticks her head suddenly around the door. One minute, Mr Karpati.
He does not move.
‘One minute. They’re playing the intro clip, Mr Karpati. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, yes fine. No problem.’
Truth is, Josef Karpati is luxuriating in the pleasure of not having his stylist in the room (who would be chastising him to sit up, please – that linen suit will look as if you’ve slept in it, Josef) – or his publicist, who would be reminding him not to correct the chat show host too abruptly if they happened to describe him as Russian.
Last Kiss Goodnight Page 5